My words were sent underground to where the toggle switch detonates.
That was the glare our voices were avoiding. There was something also
broken about the obedience of this retainer. The arcades weren’t
semaphores just because the arrows leading there facilitated those
of us in line as though reliant on east or west quadrants. The ticket
master was prone to elide requests from the travelers, the sliding doors
sounded a fanfare for the common man, get faster as thought, or mind
the gaps. What I infer can never altogether establish a space adequate
to the body count. The platform motivates two guardians who were
instructed in safekeeping to usher me from harm’s way but my stand
point so recedes from this tableaux as to acknowledge a footprint
perspective. Translucent envelope inside remaindered by the riptide
or such tunnel vision as to warrant arrest. Why I was sent to the nether
world inflicted with no wound. Someone lets fall a pair of zip locks
containing the pixie sticks of this conspiracy; what I had to say was
sent, I mentioned this I think already, underground switch and toggle
intended to ignite what I could never bring myself to mean. Where
the voices were avoiding me—hands outstretched at quarter day to hold
back the beam—was there something broken? I weather compliant. I rally.
I see a space station. More precise I see Star Wars rebels. Luke or Han signaling to show the plan is ready.
ReplyDeleteThe author's comment about inferring and allow the read to decide is so appropriate. Too often, even knowing better, I look for answers that the author is giving; yet in all honesty the author usually wants us to experience the art to find something in us, or new, or even old.
The short statements/sentences give a strong finish. Weather as a verb signifies a storm with the lighting and thunder of rebellion.